by Mark Ayre
James guessed he was not doing a grand job at keeping the contempt from his eyes, but a rush of confidence had taken him, and he used it.
“That will be why you don’t seem too broken up about Harris?”
“He was my grandson. I loved him dearly as I do my daughters.”
James said nothing. The kettle boiled and Davis turned away.
“Did Michael push you down?”
There was no immediate response. Davis had the kettle in his hands, and James watched as he poured boiling water over the veg. Was there a tremble there? Hard to tell. Davis was a man of extreme control, cultivated over years of practice. But there was something. Of that James was sure.
“Jane says you believed he was the man who put her in prison.”
“He was the man who put Jane in prison,” he said, then stopped, his hand holding the kettle dead still. He hadn’t meant to say that.
“How did you know?”
Davis replaced the kettle, started the flame beneath the pan, and took a few seconds to compose himself.
“Tell me,” he said, coming to sit opposite James at the glass-topped table. “What is your theory? We will ignore for a second that you should not be involved in this investigation, and stick to what you know.”
James checked his reflection in the glass. No sign of nerves. Good. He met Davis’ eye.
“What did Jane tell you?”
“You went to collect Harris at the club and found him dead. It looked as though my grandson had been drinking with someone and a hooded man attacked you—“ he gave James a look that suggested he found such a set of circumstances quite convenient, then went on. “Jane sent you to search Harris’ flat—after you requested to help— at which point you found a stash of cash he must have stolen. Have I missed anything?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Great, so tell me, what is your theory?”
James didn’t like it. He had come to question Davis, but the eldest Chappell was turning the tables. Had this been a normal situation, James would gladly have handed over the entire investigation, but he thought of Megan. Keeping her safe was the priority, so he decided to play coy.
“It’s a little early for theorising.”
Davis waved his hand in a manner that suggested James stop teasing.
“Come on. You have ideas. Tell me.”
“I’ve already alluded to it.”
“I’m aware. Now spell it out. I’m an old man. Brain doesn’t quite tick the way it used to.”
Neither of them believed that, and in this particular battle of the wits, James felt woefully outmatched. Feeling he had few options, he spelt out his theory.
“At it stands the clearest chain of events that fits all the facts runs like this: You discovered the man you thought to be the rat in your organisation and dealt with him in the most final of ways. Maybe you were right; maybe you were wrong. Either way, the alleged rat was also your grandson’s best friend, and when Harris found out, he came for revenge, stealing from you a large sum of money. You, annoyed at being robbed, realised he was the culprit and sent someone after him. That someone met with Harris and killed him after a scuffle.”
Scuffle. Had he just said scuffle?
It was the least of his worries. He was sat in the kitchen of an extremely dangerous man, accusing said man of murdering his grandchild. All he could do was wait for the violent reaction.
Davis, though, did not look so much as a little ticked off. He leaned back, crossed his arms and considered—or pretended to—what James had said. The look suggested if James were a salesman trying to shift theories, he wouldn’t be making any cash tonight.
“It’s an interesting thought,” Davis said, not trying to sound as though he meant it. “Though there are major holes in your theory.”
“Such as?”
“First the merits,” Davis said, and smiled the kind of smile that suggested he believed his willingness to compliment James made him a wonderful guy. “Harris was indeed unhappy about the fate of his close friend. Soon after it, he came around shouting the odds, telling me Michael would never betray Jane or me. He went on for a good while but eventually calmed down, giving me the chance to explain that Michael was the grass, that I had made sure of his guilt before I had moved to deal with him. I went on to say that even if I was wrong, making a fuss about it wasn’t going to make a difference. It was far too late for that.”
“And how did that go?”
“I can’t remember the exact words he used, but they were not pleasant. He walked out of here labelling me a monster. So, there is the merit of your theory. Harris did indeed have motive for getting revenge.”
“But,” James said, pushing Davis onto the flip side of his argument.
“But,” Dave started, then turned. At the hob, the pan began to bubble and boil, and Davis rose, giving James a disdainful look. “I have not had any money stolen. I appreciate that, if I had killed Harris, I would lie, but the fact is he would not have been able to rob me. He does not have access to any of my funds, and my security is top notch. I do not keep much cash lying around, and the cash I do have is only accessible by me. He could not even have bribed anyone to help.”
“Then—“ he said, raising his voice to speak over James. “There is the implication an employee of mine could be so unprofessional as to commit murder in a highly emotive situation. No chance.”
“They’re not unprofessional like that?” James questioned.
“No.”
“Just unprofessional in the talking to the police and getting your daughter thrown in prison way.”
Davis span, losing his cool for the first time before snatching it back an instant later.
“Let’s consider some of the elements of your story, shall we? Mystery man at the bar, mystery man at the flat. It’s a pandemic. I blame immigration.” Davis followed this with a humourless chuckle, then went on. “Do you want to know my theory?” he waited only a second before adding: “of course you do.”
He lowered the heat on the hob and returned to James, reclaiming the seat he had vacated to tend his veg. Once seated he leaned across the table, speaking as one spy might confer with another.
“I believe you killed my grandson—no, don’t interrupt. You had your turn; now it’s mine. Where was I?” He played like he needed to regain the thread of his accusation, then jumped back in. “I think you kill my grandson, then ring Jane, making up the story about this mystery attacking man so you could convince her to send you to his flat. She believes your story, for whatever reason—“
“Intuition?”
“Grief, I’d wager, but whatever the case she agrees to your little plan, and off you go to the flat where you either get lucky and find the money or, more likely, plant it to muddy the waters and further remove yourself from suspicion. Then you call Jane, tell her someone watched you leave the flat and poof, you’re in the clear.”
A brief annoyance that Davis would dare accuse him, but that was a little unfair. After all, he had accused Davis moments earlier. He was merely repaying the favour. It was the kind of theory James might have believed sitting in Davis' shoes. The mystery attacker and mystery watcher were convenient. Though it wasn’t James’ fault they hadn’t offered name and photo ID when spotted.
It was the truth, and his instinct was to fight.
“I—“
But no, that was the wrong play. Davis either believed his guilt or didn’t, and James had nothing fact-based to change his mind, so why try? Davis wanted him weak, so the only tactic was to go strong.
“What happens now, then?” James said. “You make me disappear like Michael? If I run will I find the front door locked? Perhaps you could torture a confession out of me?”
“You’re so dramatic,” Davis said, rolling his eyes. “Though, I notice, you didn’t deny it.”
“I didn’t do it,” James said. “That make a difference?”
“Not particularly.”
James was still searching fo
r angles but guessed this conversation was going one way. To combat this, he rose and tucked in his chair.
“I think I’ll test that door.”
“Go ahead,” Davis said, raising his hands to suggest no harm. “I don’t know what you think about what I did to Michael. People hear I’m a crook and tend to believe I make people disappear all the time. As if I click my fingers and all the people who have annoyed me throughout the day drop dead.”
“That’s not the case?”
“No. I’m not a monster, and even if I was, it is not easy to get away with murder, even when you have as much money as me. It offers unnecessary risk.”
“I think we did risk assessments in business studies at school,” James said. “Don’t remember mention of murder though.”
Davis smiled, and rose, apparently unwilling to be stuck a level below James. He was tall. James tried not to be intimidated as he spoke down.
“When I was told that Michael was the man who put my Jane in jail, I did not rush out to capture him. I watched him, gathering evidence. I made 100% sure I had the right man before picking him up. Even then, as sure as I was, I questioned him, and he confessed the truth to me. Only then did I make him—“ he smiled as the euphemism formed on his lips—“disappear.”
“I’m sure,” James said, feeling his temper slip, “it was of great comfort to Michael that you conducted a thorough investigation before murdering him.”
Davis winced at the word murder but recovered fast. Turned his eyes to shark threatening.
“My daughter has chosen to trust you. She is grieving, and that has made her foolish but let me make this clea—I do not trust you. I do not believe you innocent. I have no idea why you would murder my grandson, but I believe you did and, when I can prove it—“ he paused for effect. Then—
“Well, you’ll be able to ask Michael whether he was the grass first hand.”
10
Kaye Fisher lived halfway down a row of rundown, miserable looking terraced houses, a few miles and several worlds from Davis’s home.
The path was overgrown and cracked. The door’s window panes looked as though they might break if disturbed. Knocking on wood, he watched the paint chip beneath his soft attack.
James’ head was awash with theories and fear. Two key parts of any investigator’s diet. Ignoring the latter was impossible, but he gave it his best shot, bringing the former into focus. Considering Davis’ theory—he had placed the blame on James and that had left little avenues for questioning. He had also suggested a way the money might not be involved. Two methods of attack that pushed the blame from him. Was that intentional? Was it the guilty man’s way of trying to wiggle free. Either way, it amounted to the same thing—Davis was coming after James, and that upped the amount of danger he was in considerably.
“Hello? Can I help you?”
The door had opened on a tired, harried looking woman with kind but sad eyes.
“Hi, my name is James Perry—“
“If it’s a sales call, I don’t have time. I’ve got to take my son to a friend’s house in—“she checked her watch, realised she wasn’t wearing one—“soon.”
“It’s not a sales call,” James said. “It’s about your brother, Michael.”
In Davis’ theory, Michael’s murder for being a grass had upset Harris but had nothing to do with his eventual death. Or, if it did, its cause was not via Davis. James had been inclined to dodge his visit to Kaye altogether, but there was a strong chance Michael was involved, given how close together the murders had been, so he had to ask the questions. Besides, he had promised Jane.
The name knocked Kaye, but she rallied fast.
“What about him?”
“You know what happened to him?”
“Official line is he’s run off,” Kaye said. “I know better.”
“Do you know why he, uh, disappeared?”
“Pissed off some bad people. Look, is there a point here?”
Hesitation was killing him. Kaye was backing away, and he had to dive in to save the conversation.
“Last night someone murdered Harris Chappell.“
That stopped her. Clutching the door, she stared but did not speak.
“I was the one who found him. I also found a large bag of stolen money in his flat.”
“Right, so?” she said, her voice rushing from her as she worked through the short sentence.
“So, I wonder if he might have stolen the money off someone rich and powerful in revenge for the murder of his best friend. Someone he might have already had unique access to. His grandfather, Davis Chappell, for example.”
A light cough, followed by an attempt to look unfazed, though the colour had drained from her skin. She looked at her watch, but it hadn’t materialised in the last couple of minutes. With a resigned look, she stepped back from the door.
“You’ve got five minutes.”
In a small, poorly kept living room, Kaye stood. As she hadn’t taken a seat or offered one, James remained standing. He found a spot by the window, the light struggling to push past dirty panes of glass, and tried to decide how to proceed.
“I really haven’t got long,” she said.
“I don’t need long.”
“You’re not a cop?”
“No.”
“Then, who?”
“I knew Harris Chappell. Someone killed him last night.”
“Yes, you mentioned.”
“You didn’t know?”
“How would I? I’m sorry, give me—“ she poked her head out of the door and yelled up the stairs. “Jacob Fisher you have two minutes to get your butt down here, or we’re not going.”
Arms folded she returned into the room, business once more.
“You know who did it?”
“Not yet.”
“But you think it might be linked to the death of my brother?”
James considered this. Jane had given him license to tell the truth to whoever he wanted. Confronting Davis, being forthcoming had not seemed the right option. Now, it did.
“Since his mother was sent down, Harris had pretty much no friends from what I can tell. He was friendly to people at work, but that was it. Except, that is, for your brother. What was it about Michael that stopped him being cut out like everyone else?”
Kaye glanced out the door, then shook her head, arms folded in defiance.
“You want something from me. I don’t know if you can trust you. Tell me how this all links to my brother and I’ll decide if I can offer you anything. If I even want to.”
James didn’t like it, but Kaye had no reason to talk, and what would he do if she said no? Force her? No. He would have to tell her what he knew and take it on faith she would want to help him afterwards. Unfortunately—
“I don’t know much, and I’ve told most of it already. Michael was the only person Harris was friends with. Therefore, when Michael disappeared, it stands to reason Harris would have been angry. He might have wanted to punish the culprit. If he held his grandfather responsible, how would he hurt him? Men like Davis don’t care about much, but there is a couple of things. Money being the primary one. Hence the bag of stolen cash I found at Harris’ flat.”
“And I suppose you would theorise Davis discovered what Harris did and sent someone round to deal with his grandson. A move that ended with Harris’ murder?”
“Yes.”
“Seems unlikely.”
“Like I said. I don’t have much to go on. If there was anything at all you could tell me—even if it doesn’t seem relevant, it might help. If the murders of Harris and Michael are related maybe I can get justice for your brother in getting justice for Harris. Isn’t that what you want?”
Shame attacked as he deployed these exploitation tactics. He saw the effect his words of justice had, but she was no fool. Fighting back the hope she shook her head, anger crossing her features.
“Justice? Please. You’re not working off your own back, are you? My guess would be Jane
sent you? No need to nod, I already know. That means you work for her. That means you’re one of them, and I don’t deal with them. I need to go.”
Already turning, and James almost tripped over a coffee table going after her. At the door she stopped and turned to watch him grab his throbbing ankle, bending at the waist which only served to remind him his stomach was far from healed.
“Smooth,” she said, though she had paused. She watched as he backed up, and he wondered if his stupidity and clumsiness might make her easier to win over.
“Jane sent me, but I don’t work for her.” It was his turn to plough on through her interruptions. “Someone was with Harris the night he died. Someone I care for very much. If I didn’t step in and try to take control of this investigation, they would be in danger. So you’re right if you think I’m not doing this because I want justice for Harris, but I’m not doing it for Jane either.”
As she searched for the lies, he maintained eye contact. He had bared his soul. Told her more than he would have wanted by referencing Megan, but it was a risk worth taking if it meant she opened up.
“Who is this person you care about.”
“I’m not going to say,” he said.
“Yet you expect me to tell you everything I know?”
“You don’t gain anything from me telling you who I’m protecting. They had nothing to do with this. But I do have something to gain if you help me. What do you have to lose?”
No sooner had the words left his mouth, he knew they were a mistake. Her eyes flicked to one corner of the room. A scatter of toys; half tidied away. Then to the mantlepiece where sat photos James tried to ignore.
“You’re right in a way,” she said, whispering. “I’ve already lost the most important person in my life, aside from my son. Why not tell you everything?”
“I know it doesn’t work like that,” James said. “It was a stupid thing to say. There’s nothing I can offer you other than a promise, that if I find anything relating to your brother, I can tell you if you want to know.”
“But I already know everything,” she said with a bitter laugh. “It unfolded the way I always knew it would, but that didn’t stop it hurting.”